Any Other Response Would Be Crazy
by iwritetoemptymymind
Summary: At least, Crane reflected, having the Joker around made life more interesting.
1. Boys Just Want To Have Fun

So, this is my first fanfiction, and it is unbeta-d. I know, the horror. Bear with me, it might be okay?

Pairing: the Joker and Jonathan Crane. Sort of. In a "screwing with each other's minds" way. We'll probably briefly drop in on Bats from time to time, as well.

Rating: M, for violence, (some of it sexual), and bad language. Currently, I am not writing this as a traditional slash fic, so scenes of a physical sexual nature past the early scenes of sexual violence are unlikely.

Warnings: early on, an extended scene of sexual violence. I am also planning to have the Joker do some _very _nasty things to people. 'Cause, you know, he's a nasty man.

So... yeah...

* * *

Prologue: And Boys Just Want To Have Fun

_  
Don't bother blaming,__  
__These games and guns,__  
__He's only playing,__  
__And boys just want to have fun._

Amanda Palmer, _Strength Through Music_

There are two men.

One is small, thin, effeminate, he doesn't look like a threat.

This is one of his greatest advantages.

His eyes are a curious shade of cerulean you have never seen before.

If eyes are truly the windows to the soul, then you are surprised that the ice inside this man is not freezing him to death from the inside out. It should be coming from the corners of his mouth, cracking his skin, covering and blinding those eyes.

You didn't know blue could burn like that. You didn't know _Hell _could burn like that.

This man is a doctor. He has one of the highest tested IQs in the world. He could have done great things.

In a way, he did.

He made a compound no other doctor could have made. He could have cured cancer, AIDs, even schizophrenia, (he is a psychiatrist, after all), but he didn't.

Instead, he made a toxin that rends the minds of all who breathe it in.

Including his own.

Once, this man was named Dr Jonathan Crane. A faceful of his own fear toxin later, and he is a straitjacketed lunatic who calls himself "Scarecrow".

He's getting better, though. A mind like that, although now broken, like glass, retains its power. The pieces are shards, they sparkle in the light. They are beautiful. He is a dangerous man still.

The other man is taller. His body has a sinewy strength that suggests that he is poised like a cat, only waiting to strike. He likes to play with his food before he kills it.

That's all humans are to him. Toys.

His appearance is a stark contrast to Crane's. Crane obviously was once a well presented, painstakingly clean man.

Not so _this_ man.

His face is painted. You would say like a circus clown, but it isn't. It reminds you of the Britanni.

You know, how they used to paint themselves blue with woad before battle?

That's what this is. _Warpaint._

And if the eyes are the windows to the soul, then this man doesn't have one. They are blank, empty. There is nothing in this man's eyes except malice and insanity.

But don't call him crazy. That's a fatal mistake.

He calls himself the Joker. So does everybody else. They don't have a choice. No name, no age, no background, nothing. Even Batman, the world's greatest detective, can't find anything on him.

He is a less a man and more a force of nature.

The Joker doesn't want anything. Well, almost.

He wants to watch Gotham burn. He wants Batman to stand beside him, with him forever, his other half. He wants to be _completed._

That's one of the last things he told him. The response was less than... positive.

More than anything else, he wants Batman to smile for him. He'd do _anything _to make Batman smile.

You know he would. Inhibitions? What are they?

Crane is in Arkham Asylum. Still mad, but becoming less so, day by day.

The Joker is held down as much as possible, in transit, still in his purple suit, but not for long. Commissioner Gordon is aiming a shotgun straight at his head. The Joker is singing show tunes and asking after Gordon's children.

His lawyer has pleaded insanity. The Joker is less than amused. When he breaks out, that man will be one of the first to go. So off to Arkham he goes, drawling "Cell Block Tango" all the way.

They haven't met yet, our boys. They're going to. They shouldn't. It will not be good for anyone, perhaps except them. Maybe not even them.

And they're going to have so much _fun, _our boys.

Crane can't see you. He can't see anything. But there's a spark in those eyes, glows behind the blue. Soon he'll begin to see again.

The Joker can't see you either, of course. You're not really here. But his gaze still makes you uncomfortable. You especially don't like the fact that he winks at the air, the volume of his voice increasing,

"He had it coming, he only had himself to blaaaame. If you'd been there, if you'd have seen it, I betcha you would have done the saaaaame!"

* * *

I promise this isn't going to be one of this fics where I write about Crane's "orbs" or anything like that. I just think of Crane's eyes as being the closest physical equivalent to the Joker's scars - they are easily the most noticeable thing about him.

IQ = Intelligence Quotient. (Although I personally do not believe that intelligence can be quantified.)

The Britanni, the native inhabitants of Britain, (and the inhabitants of northern England and Scotland alone, the Picts), were believed to paint themselves blue with woad before battle. This is now largely considered a myth.

"Cell Block Tango" is a song from the musical "Chicago". It's about the murders committed by various women in the prison. It struck me as the sort of the thing the Joker would find funny.

I do not intend to write all of this in the second person, it'd get annoying pretty quickly. Thus, we'll be in the third person most of the time from here on out.


	2. In His Idleness

I think I am going to tell most of this story from Jonathan's point of view, because allowing a glimpse into the Joker's mind seems to strip away much of his mystery.

Also, in the long run, I think it is easier to empathise with Jonathan than with the Joker.  


* * *

Chapter One: In His Idleness

_  
Yet it is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top._

Virginia Woolf

The asylum had never been so unbearably tedious when he was the administrator.

Well. It had been, Crane just hadn't noticed. Say what you like about the ethical implications of torturing your patients, but it was certainly more than enough to get a man out of bed in the morning.

But that was all gone now. Of course. That is what happens when you become Gotham's first ever supervillain, a truly dubious honour. All washed down the drain like his fear toxin in the water supply, not a slow drip, but a flash flood, terrifyingly sudden.

Dignity. Prestige. Money, (although he'd never had much use for it himself). Gone gone gone.

Nothing left but a mind like a blade and a voice in his head and shatteringly cold blue eyes.

They let him out of the straitjacket eventually. When he was stable enough not try to claw his arms down to the bone, screaming. Even as he stabilised, he considered doing it still. The fear on the faces of the orderlies each time they tried to drag his ragged fingernails from the haphazard, nauseatingly painful wounds was palpable. Not to mention delicious.

He resisted. The more he remembered what it was like to be sane, the more he missed it. Control, the word etched onto the very core of his being, was an unattainable dream for the bloody, scrawny heap of bones he had become.

Thus, slowly, the fog began to clear out of his mind. It took considerable effort. As he came to, he began to realise how boring it all was, the whitewashed walls, the other patients, even his doctors. Was this to be his life now? For the rest of his life?

But that was not all. As the Master of Fear began to take control of his mind again, he in turn began to feel afraid.

Reality was still a distant yet thrilling prospect, the night an orderly, while locking him in for the night, leant down and whispered in his ear, "You're a mess. But you're a _hot _mess."

Crane had never been one for slang of any kind. Language, having a greater vocabulary than others, was one of his most powerful tools, and he _hated _to hear it degraded.

So the orderly's words meant little to him, and anyway, the shaking wouldn't stop it wouldn't stop and when the lights went out _it _would be running down the walls again and what if he couldn't keep his eyes shut this time?

Weeks passed. Time was fluid here. Hushed innuendo continued. One night, the orderly pushed dark hair back from a sharp cheekbone. The next, large fingers stroked down his neck. The next, a hand closed around his wrist.

The next night, all three.

And even Crane, brilliant psychiatrist, mad scientist, who couldn't interact with the common man for all the tea in China, had worry niggling around the edges of his eyes.

He was usually disastrously bad at reading facial expressions, body language, all non verbal signals. He couldn't deny it was odd for a man who could break people down from the inside out with a few sentences and an icy smile, but there it was.

His razor-like wit and intelligence usually got him where he wanted to go. Who needed others?

But when Crane looked at the orderly, something coiled in the pit of his stomach which felt dangerously like unease. When the man looked at Crane, his pupils dilated. When he came nearer to Crane, his breathing became rough and heavy. And when he touched Crane, Crane closed his eyes and said very quietly to himself,

_  
Yes, I am very sure that there is a deeply unpleasant physical reaction taking place in this man's regulation slacks right now. Avert your eyes and be very grateful he's not using it on you. Be calm, Jonathan. Breathe._

Years of bullying and abuse meant impassive condescension could easily be faked. But the plummeting feeling in his stomach every time the orderly came near him did not abate, and as much as he comforted himself, he suspected it was a fruitless endeavour.

After a month of one sided flirting, The Incident took place. Crane always capitalised it in his mind. How could he not? Life certainly wasn't _boring _after this.

Perhaps it was just his flair for the dramatic.

Now, _who _did _that _remind him of?

* * *

Hot mess is a particularly hilarious term, I have always found. Its definition can be found very quickly by searching Urban Dictionary.

The orderly meant it in the "in a horrible state but still physically attractive" way.


	3. You Got A Lot When You Get Caught

I was so, so excited when someone reviewed, I can't even begin to describe it. Thank you so much! (The story hadn't even been up for twelve hours! The happy you have caused me, it is great.) Thank you very much, JokersOnlyFear, I will check out your stories tomorrow, post-essay I am writing. (The Dead Sea Scrolls. They're long. And deadly.)

I realised that I actually totally failed to explain where I got the title of this story from: it's taken from a long monologue by the Joker in Alan Moore's _Batman: The Killing Joke._ The Joker is trying to drive Gordon mad, and gives his (dubious) explanation about why madness is preferable to insanity.

I am undecided whether or not it's my favourite Batman comic book, (_Batman: Year One_ by Frank Miller takes some beating), but it's definitely one of the best things ever written in the graphic novel medium, in my humble opinion.

It the context of this story, of course, it's also a reference to Jonathan. After all, when the Joker asks you to come along for the ride, what response could you possibly give except "Yes."?

* * *

Chapter Two: You Got A Lot And More When You Get Caught

_You got this thing that really makes me hot__  
__You got a lot and more when you get caught__  
__You got this thing that follows me around__  
__You fucking bitch well I hope your insides rot_

Babes In Toyland, _Bruise Violet_

Waiting on his mattress for the standard night of light groping followed by inescapable boredom, Crane believed himself to be in a fairly tranquil state of mind.

When he jolted from the bed as soon as the door opened, he was forced to concede that his nerves were still as frazzled as ever.

But it wasn't as if he was the only one. Today was the day that _the Batman, _(the hiss of distaste in Crane's mind was almost verbalised), finally gave the GCPD the man who had taken up Crane's mantle as Gotham's supervillain supreme.

The Joker.

Crane's feelings about him thus far were fairly ambivalent. He greatly admired how he had terrorized the insignificant ants that were the citizens of Gotham, and even if their methods were startling different, the end result of utter dread was the same. The fear caused by the Joker was fear borne of chaos, as opposed to Crane's by meticulous semi-legal planning, (although he suspected that anyone who escaped the GCPD in such a manner made many more contingency plans than he claimed), but he could respect it all the same. And the panic caused by Crane's fear toxin, in the end, probably caused far more chaos than any masterfully engineered explosion of the Joker's.

The Joker could only worm his way into people's heads figuratively. Crane's toxin _literally _took hold of their minds and ripped them to shreds.

And it had been so beautiful. His own Ninth Symphony. An act so great he doubted it could ever be improved upon. But oh, how he wanted to _try._

Also, the Joker had _incinerated_ Rachel Dawes. He needed to shake his hand for that alone.

As it turned out, most representatives of Arkham's administration were less ambivalent in their feelings towards the gruesomely scarred embodiment of sociopathy. Or, as he was considered for all of four hours, the orderlies' new punching bag.

The man with the undue interest in Crane had unwisely stood much too close to the Joker during the only time he was not strapped down for a full body search, (his clothes long removed. Nothing but knives and a plastic joke flower anyway.), which was not really within protocol when dealing with a terrorist, but he'd been so sedate for the previous couple of hours they made the decision that he was, for the few minutes the search would take, not to be considered a safety risk.

Apparently the Joker had an unusual ability regarding straitjackets and getting out of them in a matter of seconds. And the things he could do with a clipboard and pen did not bear repeating.

The Crane-Crusher got out of the way with relative speed, and thus was only briefly choked, during which he managed to wrestle the ballpoint pen from the Joker.

_  
Kudos there, _Crane thought.

The man to the Joker's right was not so lucky. And it probably would have been better for him if the other man had let him keep the pen. That way, the Joker might not have broken off the metal part of the clipboard and jammed it all the way through his eye socket. _Might. _Crazy is as crazy does. And whatever the Joker claimed, Crane thought, he _was _crazy. How could anyone wearing that suit not be?

Yes, Crane reflected, behaving well enough, (_sane enough_), to be allowed out of his room to talk to the other prisoners inmates had its – occasional – perks. Their conversation was usually so insipid, but this was _wonderful_.

For such a clever man – blindingly, shockingly, _fatally _so – one would have expected Crane to have considered the consequences this all might have for himself.

He did not.

Thus his shock only grew when he realised the click of the key in the lock meant his least favourite orderly was already locking the door.

From the inside.

* * *

Babes In Toyland were an American punk rock band who made really angry feminist music. "Bruise Violet" is one of my favourite song's of theirs.

Ninth Symphony is that of Beethoven, of course, which is generally considered his masterpiece, (although, personally, I think some of his piano sonatas are obviously superior).

The Joker's plastic flower is a comic book reference – one of the Joker's favourite tricks is filling a plastic flower with acid or something similarly horrible and inviting people to smell it.

Yeah, I know, I wrote something where the Joker went for the eye. Have I no imagination? Possibly not, but look at it this way: I think the Joker is a combat pragmatist. He had virtually no weapons, and going for eyes is always a reliable, and horribly painful, way of taking someone out of the action. Not to mention that it's almost always fatal. Mr J likes fatal.


	4. My Courage Chooses To Sell Out Now

Thank you very much for the reviews – JokersOnlyFear – a review is coming, I promise!

Ithurial, thank you very much – I don't know about impressive, but I certainly like writing fanfiction a lot more than I expected to!

WARNING: rape is the dominant theme of this chapter, so if this could potentially upset you, please don't read it.

In case it is unclear, lines that are in italics are Crane's thoughts.

* * *

Chapter Three: My Courage Chooses To Sell Out Now

_Every finger in the room is pointing at me__  
__I wanna spit in their faces__  
__Then I get afraid what that could bring__  
__I got a bowling ball in my stomach__  
__I got a desert in my mouth__  
__Figures that my courage would choose to sell out now__  
__I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets__  
__Looking for a savior underneath these dirty sheets  
_

Tori Amos, _Crucify_

_  
No no no no nononononono NONONONO_

Crane bit down on his lip, hard.

_  
NOT. THIS. PLEASE._

_  
(Please? I don't say please. I __**never **__say please.)_

Not one of the few tortures that had _not _been inflicted upon him during his still relatively-short life. He thought they were over. What a fool he was.

His teeth sank in further, blood began to make its way down his chin and onto his tongue, and if this hadn't been a nervous tic so old it was almost reflex Crane probably would have gagged.

The orderly, who had always been so disgustingly lecherously _verbose _before, was now silent. He advanced on Crane slowly, sliding his belt out as he moved.

Crane's urge to analyse everything, everyone, was still present even as his body became paralysed with fear.

_  
He's going to break me, because, today, someone tried to break him._

_  
He's going to choke me and beat me and tear off my clothes and make me bleed in places I have no business to be bleeding – _

_  
And I will never be in control again. Not really._

Lights out. Sudden blackness.

_  
Oh joy._

A brief glimpse of the look in the orderly's eyes.

_  
He's going to make this hurt even more than is necessary._

Crane drew his legs up under his chin. He could already feel his body starting to shake, in a few seconds it would tense up briefly and then totally relax, as years of beatings had taught it to, it would hurt less that way –

A _crack_in the darkness. It was only a few seconds later that Crane realised that the sound had been the orderly's belt whipping across his face.

A few seconds more and the stinging grew, and something liquid and hot was running down his face a fraction from the scar that _bitch _ADA Dawes had given him –

That was when he realised that the orderly had hit him full in the face with the buckle end of the belt. It could have taken out his eye. He had assumed that although the orderly badly wanted to hurt him, he was at least going to get out of this _alive._

Now he wasn't so sure.

Crane did something he rarely did, even if it was locked inside the silence of his own head.

He swore.

_  
Oh, shit. I'm really, really in trouble now._

His gasp was barely audible, so determined was he to give this man as little of a reaction as possible. How desperately he clung to any control he could retain. How futile it all was.

Things did not begin to blur after that, regardless of how much Crane wished they would. They became isolated, horrifying moments in time, a fetid clash of too many sensations, his mind swimming with fear.

He fought, briefly. He was too small to put up any real sort of fight. This was probably why he was chosen in the first place.

The orderly's hands, pulling back his head by the hair. It felt like he had yanked it out by the roots. So like the Batman, so awfully familiar.

Hands, ripping off his orange jumpsuit, pulling it down to the waist. Stopping –

The man biting savagely down on his neck, blood welling against his teeth.

Crane broke his own promise to himself, then, and let out a soft moan of pain.

In an instant, knees either side of his slim waist, two hands around his neck, and the edges of his vision began to dim, and what he wouldn't give to have his toxin now, to make this man scream while he urinated like an animal –

But he could feel he was about to black out, and welcomed it, at least he wouldn't remember all the filthy things this man was about to defile him with –

Hands released him. The man knew. And wanted Crane to suffer.

And then and then and then –

His hands reached down, began to strip him further, and Crane bit down on his tongue until scarlet seeped from the corners of his mouth, would rather choke on his own blood than let this man hear him sob –

Hands were reaching, one pinning his wrists down, the other forcing his legs open, and it's been years since Crane felt like the gangly teenager he once was, he had forgotten the curse of being small and light and inappropriately pretty –

Tried to force himself to relax –

_  
It'll be over soon it'll be over soon it'll be over soon_

_  
(like it always was)_

And it was coming and he knew it, tried to go limp –

A _crash. _Another. A confused chuckle.

"Ta-da!", said a voice as grating as nails on a blackboard. As if the voice expected applause.

A light clicked on.

"Well, what do we have here?"

* * *

Tori Amos is a very eccentric singer-songwriter, and "Crucify" is a very beautiful if slightly disturbing song.

I have to say, unhealthy though this is, I based a lot of Jonathan's reactions in this chapter on what I imagine would be my own – they are entirely THEORETICAL, let me absolutely clarify. Being not even five foot one and weighing less than a hundred pounds, I can very much sympathise with Jonathan's almost total inability to fight back – but I am also quite sure that if this sort of thing ever happened to me, I would want to prevent my attacker from getting as little enjoyment as possible out of it. Hence the making no noise. Yes, I am quite strange.

Of course Jonathan never says please – or at least, says it and really means it. And of course saying it, even in his own head, is quite landmark, even if it is in his own head.


	5. I'm Your Villain

So... yeah. Thought it was time to have the boys meet.

* * *

Chapter Four: I'm Your Villain

_  
I know what I am__  
__I'm your villain__  
__I don't give a damn if__  
__I'm your villain__  
__Because serious__  
__You're so serious_

Franz Ferdinand, _I'm Your Villain_

Crane knew that voice. Had heard it on those videos sent to the Gotham news stations, the ones the staff tried to turn off as soon as they came on TV in the rec room.

They never could turn them off. Crane had hidden the remote, so he could stare, transfixed, at the screen. Regardless, anyone stupid enough to give the inmates of Arkham Asylum anything that could be used as a weapon deserved far worse than the excitement brought on by the Joker's hostage videos. The staff were just fortunate that he had it and not one of the serial killers.

They were never grateful, of course. Neanderthals.

Apparently, the man who was currently suffocating Crane beneath his weight knew the voice too.

_  
Feared _it.

Crane can tell from the way the man had stiffened above him in an entirely _new _way.

Which would have been lovely to observe, but Crane was still paralysed with the almost-horror of it all, and oh god, he's _naked, _and he doesn't know what to do.

The orderly, gets off him, pulls up his slacks, legs shaking slightly, although nothing compared to Crane, who swiftly pulled back on his jumpsuit, torn though it was to the waist. And _damn_ the no-underwear policy at Arkham, how did they manage to get even more neglectful than when he was running it and not even paying attention – and he cowered slightly, while making a brave yet transparent attempt to make it seem as if he wasn't.

The orderly, meanwhile, had grabbed the Joker by the lapels of his jumpsuit, and pulled him close, and barked "Freak!" right in his face.

Crane was willing to wager his not inconsiderable reputation as a psychiatrist that this was a bad move. A _very _bad move.

He also began to wonder how he was going to get out of this situation, and if this was out of the frying pan and into the fire. Currently, his brilliant mind was failing him.

_  
Thanks, brilliant mind. What's the use of a genius level IQ if it can't get me out of this?_

And he was pretty certain that he'd rather be raped to death by a thick-as-a-plank orderly than by a murdering terrorist with a personality disorder, a total lack of empathy and an affinity for knives.

It had got worse. Of course it had got worse. Basically his life in a nutshell.

_  
Thank you, universe, for giving me this mind, so I could die screaming in the cell of an insane asylum at the hands of a man who wears face paint for fun. It was totally worth it. Thank you __so very much._

Crane's panic barely lasted seconds.

He looked up and the Joker was still laughing.

Through his off-kilter, high pitched giggling, Crane heard him say, "Oh, that's riiiiight. I killed one of your friends today. I'd say sorry about that, but I'm really not, so... tell you what... Barry... are you, uh, 'Barry'? 'Cause the other guy was called 'Gary' and that's just plain _confusing... _I'm _really _disappointed about the sound his eyeball made. 'Cause I was expecting a "pop", and it was sorta _gloopy, _real drrrrippy – "

The would-be-rapist apparently tragically named "Barry" slammed the Joker up against the wall, growling incoherently with rage.

It all happened rather fast after that.

Really, Crane was impressed. Whether goading the orderly was just for fun, as Crane later learned the Joker liked to call it, for "shits and giggles", only so he could get the keys off his swiftly pulled-back-on belt, or a fun fun fun combination of both Crane didn't know, but three seconds later the man was on the floor, a key in his carotid artery, and a pool of sticky goodness spreading beneath him.

Curiously, the Joker knelt down beside the man, humming almost absentmindedly. The orderly, who was convulsing lightly, sounded like he was also having a panic attack, gargled garbled groans spilling from his lips along with the blood-bubbles.

Crane noticed for the first time that the Joker's face was bare. He had once been a handsome man. Could still be, without the madness that lurked beneath the scars.

Apparently this had occurred to the Joker also, as he dipped a finger in the ever-spreading pool of blood and drew his customary smile on his face.

Crane didn't know whether to be awestruck or revolted.

The Joker, joy filling his voice, said, "Isn't that better, boys and girls?"

He turned his head towards Crane, and sang, "Boy... Girl?"

Crane stiffened slightly, angrily.

The Joker's gaze flickered down to Crane's ripped jumpsuit.

"Boy."

"Indeed."

Crane's tone made Antarctica seem like a sun seeker's paradise.

The Joker smirked. Hit a nerve. Good.

"No need to get catty."

Crane, too bruised and shell-shocked for survival instinct to kick in, harrumphed and crossed his arms in a passable imitation of a sulking adolescent.

The Joker cocked his head as a thought struck him, his smirk widening.

"Aren't you a doctor, kitty-cat?"

"Yes."

_  
Kitty-cat?_

"There's a man bleeding out on the floor, ya know."

Crane gave 'Barry' a contemptuous glance.

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

The grin kept stretching.

"So you are a doctor, aren't ya? You can save him?"

Crane looked him straight in the eye. Blue blazed.

"Of _course _I can. But I don't want to."

And his grin was so feral it almost matched the Joker's.

He continued, "You got him in the external carotid artery. He will exsanguinate in less than two minutes. It should be entertaining."

At that, the Joker actually _laughed._

"So you're the Scarecrow?"

"Well deduced."

The Joker moved towards the bed, hand outstretched.

"I'm the Joker."

"I know who you are."

The larger, stronger hand gripped Crane's and shook it, hard.

_  
Fear, meet Chaos._

"Kind of small and skinny for supervillain, ain't ya?"

"I think you have proven very well already tonight that slimness and a height difference do not mean one cannot be dangerous."

Crane inclined his head towards the twitching mass on the floor.

The Joker's smile was almost manic now.

"Checkmate, Doctor."

Crane leant back against the wall, amusement still clear in those hypnotically deadly eyes.

"You know that ya still kind of naked there, Doc?"

Crane's face flamed, (and probably most of his chest, too. Pale skin. It's a curse.), as he realised that was very little he could do about rectifying this situation. The Joker's cheery leer was not helping.

The Joker took advantage of his confusion to pull him to his feet and started to drag him to the door.

_  
Of course _this was when the alarm went off.

Crane sighed inwardly, as the Joker danced from one foot to the other in excitement and anticipation beside him.

_  
Back to the straitjacket we go._

_  
... we?_

_  
Oh, __son of a bitch. _

* * *

Franz Ferdinand are a Scottish Indie/art rock band. I think using "I'm Your Villain" is a little cliché, but I couldn't resist. (If any of you read TV Tropes, I consider this an example of _Big Damn Villains_. Hence the title.)

Barry is the name of someone who upset one of my friends recently. Hence this "Barry". Although I should point out that real life Barry is not a rapist, just a bit of a waste of space. Also, "Barry" is a truly tragic name. (I consider myself able to make judgments like this because my real name is so ridiculous it sounds like a Mary Sue.)

"Kitty-cat" is a brief homage to the wonderful _Lauralot_, and her Joker's tendency to call Jonathan "kitten". I love "kitten", it's just the right mix of condescension and misplaced affection.

Severing the carotid artery is very dangerous and usually fatal.

Pale skin. It _is _a curse. Everyone knows when _I'm _embarrassed, that's for sure.

Is the "we" supposed to be ambiguous? Yes, yes it is.


	6. Not At All A Dream

Thanks for the reviews! I will reply personally and properly after the nightmare that will be this week is over.

Also, a note to say that updates will almost certainly be slower after this, but they will come.

Thanks for reading!

* * *

Chapter Five: Not At All A Dream

_I had a dream, which was not all a dream._

_  
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars_

_  
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,_

_  
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth_

_  
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;_

_  
Morn came and went --- and came, and brought no day,_

_  
And men forgot their passions in the dread_

_  
Of this their desolation; and all hearts_

_  
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light_

Lord Byron, _Darkness_

It hadn't been, Crane reflected three days later, _that _bad.

Yes, the Joker had fought like a tiger on PCP, as Crane stood there, blank as plain paper, blood running down his torso, until someone finally tried to touch him and he in turn tried to bite off their ear.

He had been subdued embarrassingly quickly – most of the orderlies had at least four or five inches on him – but he'd got in a few good blows here and there. He'd broken someone's nose, and the ear guy was clearly going to need stitches.

He had stopped fighting when he realised how pointless it was, and the only thing that distracted him from the sheer skin-crawling horror of having people touch him post-attempted-rape was the spectacle the Joker made.

Frankly, what _a show_.

He killed three men and he didn't even have a weapon.

Eventually – by eventually, Crane meant "about three minutes, if that" – they gave up and tasered him repeatedly. It took a lot of shocks. He was still fighting tooth and nail after the first two, and wasn't even unconscious until the fifth, cackling all the way.

Tasers were new at Arkham. Crane suspected that the growing "supervillain issue" may have contributed to this.

Crane would have enjoyed the other man's pain, if he had not just been his unwitting – maybe even deliberate – rescuer.

And the man clearly got off on pain.

An interesting observation, and perhaps a useful one, although he couldn't imagine how.

Nevertheless, knowledge is power and all that.

They dragged him away, and Crane could have sworn there was a smile on his face.

Could have been the dried blood, of course. Difficult to tell.

Three days later and here he was, straitjacket free and actually eating in the "cafeteria", (he always put it in quotation marks in his mind, he doubted that anything that came from there could _really _be defined as food, and was continually surprised that it was _legally _so), and yes, he was using a spork, and it was humiliating, but it was better than nothing, and it was certainly better than eating jelly with his fingers. _That _had been truly humiliating.

"Barry" died, of course.

He needed emergency medical attention within the first few seconds, attention Crane had been unwilling to provide. Crane was certain that the incident would be written up as "neglect" of some kind, a full investigation would be promised, and never take place. The midnight beatings of inmates would continue, and life would go on as before.

But Crane wasn't punished, largely because his and the Joker's stories matched. Perfectly. The Joker claimed that he'd heard noises from his cell across the hall, and had broken in to save Crane from being raped.

Crane hadn't even known that the Joker was imprisoned across the hall, but he claimed that in his humble, (and also previously _professional_), opinion, (which ought to count for something), he believed that the Joker was trying to save him.

Apparently, Arkham staff _had _become even stupider than he realised post-his-downfall, because they believed not only him, but the Joker as well.

How could they believe _the Joker_? Had they _met _him?

But they couldn't punish Crane for his _own attempted rape, _not really, so after a day in the infirmary and lots of pain medication that he needed but didn't want, because it clouded his mind and made him slur, he was let loose, with the insane asylum equivalent of a pat on the head.

But even the Joker wasn't punished, not really, for it appeared that a new recruit he had hired shortly before his, um, villainous rampage was even more of a naive idiot than he had previously expected. And he hired her because he thought no girl of her personality and disposition would even be able to countenance suspicions of what he was really doing to his patients.

Dr Harleen Quinzel.

Treating _the Joker_. This would not end well. For her, at least. He was sure that the Joker would get whatever he wanted out of the equation, he always seemed to.

"Harley", as Crane remembered that she liked to be called, (sometimes even by patients, how unprofessional), apparently decided that what the Joker was trying to express had been "healthy and positive", he had just gone about it in an "unhealthy and negative" manner.

Violent murder was "unhealthy"?

_  
Well..._

Crane braced himself for a colloquialism.

_  
... duh._

Although, he supposed, perhaps he was not the most competent judge of "healthy". He had spent several weeks as a sometimes co-existing split personality.

Hence, the "we" of earlier was not an entirely excellent sign.

But the worry that had coiled in his stomach mere days earlier was now replaced with anticipation.

After a week of solitary confinement they were occasionally going to let the Joker associate with the other inmates. Only the high security ones, of course - the ones that maybe stood a chance at self defence. Which they didn't, anyway. Because it was _the Joker. _Honestly, how stupid were these people?

_  
Great idea, Arkham. Let the most dangerous man in Gotham loose among murderers and rapists. I'm sure that won't end in tears. Why don't you give him some TNT and a pack of those cards he loves so much while you're at it? If anyone could ferociously slaughter someone with a deck of cards, it would be __**him**__._

But he couldn't complain. Not really. They were letting the Joker out and he might have someone here to really talk to for the first time in quite some time, and that even made the indignity of eating with an instrument with a portmanteau name worth it. Or at least almost bearable.

So, finally having someone else to talk to was like a dream come true. Only better. All his dreams were nightmares, full of dark and fire and fear. Yes, this was much better than a dream.

Crane waited, and although he didn't smile, his eyes became that little bit more frosty.

_  
I wonder what his feelings are about biological weaponry and its practical applications? _

* * *

I love Lord Byron. Obsessively, manically, and totally. Suggesting to me that he wrote "soppy love poetry", (which has happened on more than one occasion), buys you a one way ticket to butt-kick city.

At least they didn't taser Jonathan this time. He doesn't seem to have much luck when it comes to tasers.

The "jelly" and the "spork" are a reference to "the Joker Blogs". I noticed that although they gave the Joker only food that he could eat with his hands, (jelly, apple, and something else that I don't recall), they (somewhat unwisely) let the Scarecrow have a fork. I downgraded it to a spork because: a) sporks are funnier, and b) I personally wouldn't give Jonathan a fork. It's an instrument that even a small but determined person could do a lot of damage with, and giving it to an evil genius who might want to escape your institution just seems... _ill thought-out _to me.

I don't think the Joker cared less whether Jonathan lived or died. He was almost certainly trying to break out of Arkham entirely, but decided that busting into a cell during a beat-down would be funnier. Coincidentally meeting Gotham's only other (surviving) supervillain was merely a bonus.

May I say at this point, to avoid the hating: I ADORE HARLEY QUINN. I DO, I DO, I DO. I am sorry that Jonathan was so dismissive of her, but I have to say that I do imagine that she must have been very naive to have ever fallen in love with the Joker, and must have also allowed significant boundaries to be crossed, (like letting a high-security patient call her by her nickname), also.

Yes, they're letting the Joker out to play. Yes, this is a mistake. Yes, more people are going to die. And yes, both the Joker and Scarecrow are going to find this very funny. (Scarecrow? Yes, you're going to meet him, if infrequently in this fic. For the sequel I have planned, his role will be larger.)

La la la la...


	7. And Don't Forget The Joker

Thanks for the reviews, everyone!

May I direct the attention of the class to these links, given to me by herschism , which amply demonstrate why one should never give Jonathan Crane a fork.

http:// tinypic . com/m/9asiah/4

http:// tinypic . com/m/9asjl0/4

You know what I love most about this? How the other inmates are clearly like, "Shut _up, _Crane. It's _pizza _day."

* * *

Chapter Six: And Don't Forget The Joker

_  
If you like to gamble, I tell you I'm your man__  
__You win some, lose some, it's - all - the same to me__  
__The pleasure is to play, it makes no difference what you say_

_  
..._

_  
But that's the way I like it baby,__  
__I don't wanna live forever,__  
__And don't forget the joker_

Motorhead, _The Ace of Spades_

Well, this wasn't exactly _aces_.

If he'd known rescuing the scrawny doctor would get him put in isolation so far from the other prisoners he couldn't even eavesdrop on the guards gossiping, he maybe wouldn't have bothered.

But he was a gambling man, and deciding to abort his escape attempt to find out exactly what those _peculiar _noises were had been worth it after all.

And he'd been _mighty_ annoyed when he'd failed to kill Barry earlier that day. He wanted to complete the _set_.

The Doc was quite a find as well. The Joker hadn't been entirely sure what he expected when he broke into the cell, but the soft whimpers muffled by the door had led him to believe that an inmate was being beaten.

But, _no_. That ridiculous gorilla was in the process of trying to rape Gotham City's very own mad scientist.

The Joker guessed that Crane's choice to be a mad scientist rather than a man of action like himself probably had something to do with his small stature and slight weight. He didn't look like a man who could pack a punch, if you _know what I mean_?

But he was a _vicious _little thing, he'd give him that. Sure, most attempted rape victims would probably be pretty happy to watch their attacker suffer, or even die, but the way he'd gone after the orderlies who'd tried to restrain him had been pretty _special_.

He didn't think the Doc had noticed this, as he'd been very out of it, but he'd actually torn that guy's ear _clean off. _

Unless Jesus was around, he was damn sure that guy wasn't getting his ear back.

He was a _pretty _little thing, as well, the Doc.

Joker wasn't sure how much this interested him, but there was a possibility it could be useful. Particularly if there hadn't been many good photographs of him at his trial.

It could be good, after all, to have a partner with an IQ higher than the average Chihuahua, and wasn't half bad to look at. Could _open some doors_ that horrific facial scaring and an _abrasive _personality might leave closed.

Hmm. _Partner_?

The Joker had no equals. _Except the Batman. _But Crane didn't have to know that.

He'd be a shiny new toy. A sorta-partner-in-crime.

The Joker would break him, eventually, the same way he broke all his toys, but he had a feeling with this one, it'd take _time. _Which made it infinitely better.

His cute-as-a-button psychiatrist said they were letting him out to play with the others soon. He couldn't _wait_.

She was a shiny new toy as well, Harleen. His _Harley-girl_, he called her. And the gorgeous _Veronica Mars_-lookalike let him. He'd even made her giggle once or twice.

He got the feeling that she would be the kind of toy that would be _even more _fun once she was broken. With Jonathan Crane, the fun would be in the breaking.

But he'd play with her later. He'd plan and plot and scheme, but _Johnny-boy_ was where the fun was at, for now.

The Joker was not good at waiting patiently. He twitched and sang and his tongue flicked across his lips constantly.

_  
Let me get at the good stuff! _his mind cried, in vain.

But it wouldn't be long.

His hyena smile stretched across his face.

_  
Do you want to come out to play, Johnny-boy? _

* * *

Yeah, I used "The Ace of Spades". Yes, even I am ashamed.

"Veronica Mars" is a detective show starring the beautiful Kristen Bell, who I think would make a wonderful Harley. I mean... look at this picture and tell me I'm wrong:

http:// www. shewired. com/ images/ contentimages2009e/ GeneralShewired/

Update unlikely until at least Saturday, but I'll do my best. Next chapter we shall briefly drop in on Brucey. Brucey is a _deeply unhappy man_.

Thanks for reading!


	8. Not Even In Their Army Anymore

So, coming home from university is stressful. Updates will be more regular now. There are fifteen chapters planned for this story, a one shot to go in the middle, followed by several much longer sequels. The ride is just beginning, kids. Oh, and the tense change in this chapter was deliberate. I think it makes Bruce's torment feel more... immediate.

Also, forgot the disclaimer, (will go back and fix at some point), Batman, the Joker, the Scarecrow, Alfred, Arkham Asylum, etc., all belong to DC Comics, I am only playing with them and make no profit. Only the plot is mine, please don't steal it, it's all I've got.

As always, thanks for the reviews!

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Not Even In Their Army Anymore**

"_They were gonna make me a major for this, and I wasn't even in their fuckin' army anymore."_

Captain Benjamin L. Willard, _Apocalypse Now_

It's raining outside. That's why the Dark Knight won't ride tonight.

Bruce knows this is a terrible excuse. Unless the rain is torrential, there is still crime on the streets of Gotham. If anything, the rain probably makes it easier. The night is somehow blacker when it rains, and the sound of heavy rainfall muffles screams more effectively than one might think.

Bruce tells himself it is too dangerous, the same way he has every night this month. All of the GCPD are after him, although Gordon helps him escape as often as he can.

He is lying to himself. The days of him being nothing but a lucky amateur are over. He can disable an unarmed opponent in less than two seconds, and an armed one in less than four. He's good. Maybe the best. Could give the guy in red and blue over in Metropolis a run for his money.

But he still doesn't go out.

All the televisions that are usually on in the background are switched off. Bruce finds the constant reminders of how he had failed Gotham, and himself, too crushing.

A lone concession, a police radio, on the table beside the armchair in which he sits, swilling whisky. "Bruce Wayne, millionaire playboy" may be drunk as a skunk as often as the opportunity presents itself, but "Bruce Wayne, secret vigilante" is as teetotal as a Mormon. He tries not to think about what this means, if it's cause of the ever increasing frown line in Alfred's brow.

Bruce knows what this is about really. He does, although he does his best to deny it.

_Rachel._

He misses her so much it hurts, burns somewhere deep in his gut, leaves an aching hole in his chest where his heart should be, and although sometimes the pain recedes it can never, ever be truly ignored or forgotten.

It's strange. He was away from Gotham so long he was declared legally dead, but he always knew that she was there, waiting for him, if only as a friend. He never even considered the  
possibility that she might be murdered in his absence, in the line of work she was in. Never considered that she might need him. Now she is dead, and her death is a millstone around his neck.

_Well... one of them._

Bruce wasn't exactly _thrilled _about what happened to Harvey, either. It must have been no secret to anyone who had ever observed them together that he practically idolised the man. Batman was as much responsible for his downfall as the Joker, Bruce ardently believed. And he didn't know how to live with that responsibility. Sometimes he even wonders if he can.

But _that_... was simply out of the question. It would _kill_ Alfred, for one thing. And if he tried and failed, Alfred would kill _him_.

So Bruce waits. He doesn't know what he is waiting for, but damn, does he hope he knows when he's found it.

And sometimes in the back of his skull, Batman whispers.

_Blood will run in the streets without you. You must __**endure**__. You cannot __**fail **__them now. Gotham __**needs you**__.__Needs __**me**__. Needs __**us**__._

Bruce ignores the voice, for now. But it is slowly getting stronger. Perhaps it will break him out of his inertia and ennui, if it shouts loudly enough. Bruce doesn't know, or care. It feels a great deal of the time as if he is screaming and screaming within the confines of his own head and no one can hear him. What's another voice among the screams?

Bruce falls asleep in the armchair as the first tendrils of dawn reach into the sky. Alfred finds him around seven, and sighs inwardly. He is really very worried about his young master, but it's not as if he can force him to go to a psychiatrist. Master Bruce can't walk into a therapist's office and say "I have issues stemming from the brutal murder of my parents in front of me, and it has compelled me to dress as a giant bat and run around the city fighting crime.". They'd have him declared legally insane and committed at the drop of a hat. No, that would not do.

Alfred should call Lucius again. Perhaps he'll have some ideas.

Alfred took the whisky bottle with him surreptitiously as he left, resolving to hide it somewhere better this time. Sometimes having the world's greatest detective as an employer was a trial rather than a pleasure.

For the first time in a long time, Bruce dreams of nothing but bats, bats which eventually fade into blackness.

There is a whisper in the blackness.

_The night is darkest just before the dawn. And I promise you, the dawn is coming._

Bruce murmurs in his sleep, as Gotham wakes around him, to news that Batman has still not been sighted, and the city worries. Bruce does not worry. Not yet. But he will, and soon.

The night isn't over yet.

_  


* * *

_

Apocalypse Now is a wonderful movie, even if the ending is somewhat... problematic. Martin Sheen's portrayal of Willard is one of my favourites in the history of cinema, and given that I'm a bit of a film geek, that's really saying something. In some ways, I see parallels with Batman – like Willard, people need him, but they don't want to give him legal sanctions for his actions, even though they are dangerous and have profound psychological consequences.

"Lucky amateur" is how Bruce describes himself in Frank Miller's "Batman: Year One".

The "night is darkest..." is, of course, spoken by Harvey Dent in "The Dark Knight".

Thank you for reading!


	9. My Mind Rebels At Stagnation

Sorry that this took so long, but updates should be faster after this.

Thanks for the reviews, as always.

* * *

**Chapter Eight, Part One: My Mind Rebels At Stagnation**

__

"My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere."

_  
The Sign Of Four, _Arthur Conan Doyle

It was pizza day at Arkham Asylum, and usually this put the patients in a good mood. This in turn put the staff in a good mood, and things got even better. Usually pizza day was by far the best day of the week at Arkham. Not so today.

It was probably, Crane reflected, because they were letting the Joker eat with the other inmates today.

_  
Oh, Arkham Asylum, dost thy stupidity know no bounds?_

_Well... apparently not._

Crane fiddled with his spork distractedly, then abruptly forced himself to stop. He was a _dignified man _and dignified men did not fiddle with unsightly plastic cutlery.

He sat at a table alone, having scared away the serial rapist who attempted to sit next to him with nothing but a steely glare and an unsettling sneer. Why only the inmates of this accursed place, and not the staff, had the good sense to be frightened of him he'd never know.

He inspected his plate with the aura of a man about to go to the gallows. He squinted with almost scientific distaste at what he hoped was potatoes. He braced himself and began to eat slowly and meticulously, as he always did, doing his level best to ignore the largely unpalatable taste. He always save the pizza for last, it cleansed his palate of the frankly disgusting food that came before it, and meant he didn't have to go back to his cell and spend the night wondering _was that really rice pudding?_

Today had not been a good day, _mental health wise._

Occasionally, Crane's brain would become so overloaded with information on information he was receiving from the outside world it made it difficult to function. Today was one of these days.

Usually, Crane's ability to notice things no one else would notice and retain huge amounts of such data was the root of his genius. It was not an unwise man who said that all genius truly is was the ability to retain massive amounts of information and utilise it in a new, and unique, way.

The fact that he was capable of noticing everything, all at once, (even people's deepest neuroses and which exotic chemicals would combust when exposed to the air and those that would make a mafia don sing like a little birdie), had made him a brilliant, if unconventional, psychiatrist. It also made him a social outcast, an awkward co-worker and a formidable criminal.

But today was one of those days where suddenly he knew _everything_, couldn't turn it off, and it was almost unbearable in its intensity.

_  
This potato, if it is what it purports to be, has too much pepper. The ratio needs to be lessened to at least 100:1 potato:pepper._

_  
The man behind me has fought with his cellmate again. There is no clear outward sign of this, except that they are not quite looking at each other when they speak. Likelihood of it being because Jasper wrote his name on every inch of the cell again, 16%, likelihood of it being because Tyler "freaked out" and tried to kill Jasper in a fit of schizoid paranoia, 37%, likelihood that one of them stole the other's socks again 47%._

_  
Two of Jasper's fingers have splints and his posture suggests several of his ribs are broken. Likelihood of "freak out" now 87%._

_The orderly by the door has missed his cigarette break again, he is overly twitchy and his breath does not smell of nicotine._

_  
The air conditioning is likely to break within the next 5-6 hours judging by the sounds it is making._

_  
The cough of the most sullen of the kitchen staff has an edge to it which suggest influenza, and given the hygiene of Arkham staff it is likely that she has spread it to at least three fifths of the patients currently in the room, as yesterday she will have still been in the incubation period._

_  
The other orderly on duty forgot to tie his left shoe and his shirt is done up with the wrong buttons. Probability that rumours he is conducting a clandestine affair with the red-haired infirmary nurse has increased to 63%. _

Things began to blur as it all became too much.

_  
The Joker is sitting in front of me._

_**  
The Joker is sitting in front of me.**_

_  
Ah. _

* * *

Title is a famous quotation from a Sherlock Holmes novel. If you don't know who Sherlock Holmes is, I suggest you get off Fanfiction, the Internet, and possibly this mortal coil.

Jonathan's deductive powers are very loosely based on my own experiences and the "Sherlock Holmes" novels of Arthur Conan Doyle. I am dyspraxic, and as a consequence I occasionally have days where everything becomes "too much". Obviously I am not a genius, and thus I cannot process this information as well as Jonathan Crane. There in fact a medical condition called "low latent inhibition" where people are unable to block out stimuli, and it usually results in great creativity in those of high intelligence and can lead to psychosis in those of less than average intelligence.

The incubation period is the time between being exposed to a pathogen and its symptoms becoming apparent. For some communicable diseases this is when they are most contagious.

Thank you for reading!


End file.
